


Wishes From the Naughty List

by IrishWitch58



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Christmas Smut, M/M, MI6 Cafe Anon Prompt Gift Exchange, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:49:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21886975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrishWitch58/pseuds/IrishWitch58
Summary: For week three of the Anon Gift Exchange, the prompt :A. A Christmas Miracle? AU - Q wished upon a star (or wrote a joke-y email to Santa Claus?? something similar) that he’d get Bond for Christmas (either back alive from a mission, or just interested in him) - the next day Bond arrives, backs him up against a door and goes on to act out one of Q's workplace daydreams - cue happiness and panic: IS iT REAL? (is Santa real?) Is Q magic?
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 16
Kudos: 144
Collections: Mi6 Cafe Prompt Fills





	Wishes From the Naughty List

**Author's Note:**

> This may be the single smuttiest thing I have written in ages. Might melt your gingerbread cookies. Happy Holidays! Also it scans out at more words than required for the prompts. Consider it a bonus gift.

A week before the holiday and Q was rapidly approaching a state of terminal done with this. He had managed to avoid a lot of the nonsense but some traditions had to be observed. He had purchased gifts for his relatives, all three of them, and gotten some treats for his cats. He had a small tree in his flat and was diligently avoiding the mistletoe that seemed to be sprouting everywhere. He thought he had everything managed and was nibbling at his breakfast muffin when Eve marched herself in. He kept his eyes on the screen in front of him and tried to avoid eye contact. She settled in his visitor chair, obviously not intending to leave any time soon. With an aggrieved sigh he looked up. “May I help you, Moneypenny?”

She smirked and leaned forward. “It's the other way around, dear Q. I am going to help you.” She grabbed a peppermint from the jar on his desk and unwrapped it carefully. “You have a department luncheon the end of the week. Have you gotten gifts for your staff? They work very hard and you do know they deserve a bit of recognition.”

“How do you know I haven't already dealt with it? I am a generally competent adult, you know.” Q made a serious effort to seem convincing.

“I know you. You'll avoid doing it until the last minute. So I am here to be your personal assistant. Consider me your very own elf. Here is the list of your department staff with gift ideas next to each one. Get your work done early and go out at lunch. If you follow this you'll be done this afternoon.” She grabbed another peppermint and stood, pausing at the door. “By the way, what do you want Santa to bring for you?” She didn't wait for an answer, exiting with a staccato click of heels.

Q dropped his gaze to the desk top. He shook his head at his own foolishness. There was only one thing he really wanted. And no fictional gift bringing sleigh driver was going to be of any help. He wanted Bond. It was pathetic really. He wanted him to walk through that office door right now, manhandle him up against the wall and kiss him senseless. He wanted Bond to pin him down on his own desk and fuck him through at least two orgasms while he screamed down the walls. He had fantasies all the time. And he had never had the courage to approach the man. He was reasonably sure a request for a date might be accepted. The majority of field agents were liberal in their taste in partners. The problem was, he wasn't sure he could ever bring himself to ask for what he really wanted. And Bond wouldn't ever look at him the same way if he did manage it. Better to leave it at fantasy. He forced his mind back to the work at hand and left the department in the care of R when he left for lunch, list in hand like a battle plan.

The afternoon was pleasant despite the crowds at the mall, the air full of Christmas carols and scented with pine. He moved around through the various stores, placing wrapped and labeled gifts one by one in the large canvas tote he had brought along. After some two hours, he realized he had reached the last name on the list. He placed one last tick on the sheet and folded it away. He ordered tea and sat in the center court, face wreathed in the steam from his cup and watching the parents and children lining up to see Santa. He had been sitting there for perhaps ten minutes when he noticed a young woman in a green velvet dress and attachments on her ears designed to resemble elf ears. She was going from table to table with a stack of index cards, a giant pen shaped like a candy cane, and a red cloth bag. She smiled widely when she reached him. “Hi. We're having a charity raffle for the children's hospital. You write down your fondest holiday wish on the card and your name and phone on the other and give us your donation. After Christmas we draw a name and that person gets a gift card for any store in the mall. Q eyed the cards as he felt for his wallet. “It's rather like a letter to Santa, only for grown ups,” the girl went on. 

Q accepted the pen and a card, stamped with a design of holly leaves. He wrote a false first name and phone on one side and turned it over. Letter to Santa indeed. He had a sudden flash of childish hope. It surely wouldn't hurt. He inscribed careful Cyrillic characters, writing out his fantasy of Bond in Russian. Nobody needed to read it after all, but he suddenly needed to let the wish have life somewhere, even if only in anonymous form. He handed back the card, along with a generous donation, making the young woman smile. He gathered up his coat and his bags and headed for the exit, feeling a little lighter. 

The young woman in the velvet dress moved on to the next table, occupied by a gentleman in a fine wool overcoat. He fixed her with a charming smile and a glint in his very bright blue eyes. She happily accepted a large donation and never noticed the sleight of hand when he slid the last donor's card out of the stack and slipped it up his sleeve. He waited until she left before glancing at it. Clever, he thought. Not likely the charity had someone on staff who could read Russian. He smiled broadly, deciphering the phrases. Well, well. This was certainly pleasantly surprising. He tucked the card into an inside pocket, exiting the mall and retrieving his car. 

Out of all the MI6 departments, Q branch was credited with throwing the best parties. The resident technicians all had skills outside their work. The decorations were always new and eye popping. The music was a varied selection that never stopped. And the food was a combination of catered in and the individual dishes each person brought. Q presided over the scene, dressed in a jumper featuring working lights and kittens that sang when a button was pushed. It was garish in a completely amazing way. He had a huge red sack next to him and he sipped egg nog that absolutely was not spiked (if he didn't see it, it didn't happen) and handed out the gifts, all of them mixed together in the bag. The higher ups, including M, had made an appearance, winding between the desks and sampling the excellent food. M seemed to have a fondness for Praneet's samosas. Q was reasonably sure he had seen the man pocket a large napkin full of the treats. By all accounts the fare at the executive holiday do was deplorably bland so Q looked the other way. 

He was aware of a lull in noise around him. He looked up and saw several of the techs standing up in their cubicles and stretching to see over the heads of their fellows, rather like meerkats sensing a predator. He looked over his shoulder and caught sight of an all too familiar blond head. Well there was no rule excluding the agents from the party. Q returned to his distribution of the gifts, keeping a surreptitious eye on Bond as he moved effortlessly through the room, chatting with people he knew. Q caught himself staring and resolutely turned away, thinking guiltily of his Christmas wish. He had regretted it after he left the mall but could think of no excuse he could make to get the stupid card back. He handed out the last gift, folding up the empty sack, and slid between bodies and past desks. He felt a sudden let down in the midst of everyone else's cheer. His office was right ahead. He could retreat behind his door and perhaps get a bit more work done. It would keep his mind off other things. 

He was about to close the door, had his finger inches from the lock button, when a hand interposed itself. “Happy Christmas, Q.” Bond casually slipped into the office, closing the door behind him. He looked Q straight in the eye as he reached past him and pressed the locking button. A tiger in a finely fitted suit, Bond took slow steps closer. Q swallowed hard, pinned in place by the glacial gaze. “I thought you might like something a bit different for the holiday,” Bond continued. Before Q could say or do anything else, Bond had snaked a solid arm around his waist and fitted them together, sliding his other hand into soft curls and dipping his head to bring their mouths within a breath of touching. “Yes?” Bond whispered, low and for Q alone. 

Desperate and bubbling with desire and apprehension, Q threw common sense out the window. “Yes!” was all he managed to get out before Bond crowded him against the wall, fisting a hand in the horrible jumper and fastening his mouth to Q's, an unsubtle and devastating joining that was the beginning of every fantasy Q had about the man. But it was real and so much better. Bond lifted his mouth away for a moment and Q squeaked out a small alarmed noise as the muscled arms circled him, hands clasped his thighs and lifted until his feet left the floor. “James,” he gasped out and the hard mouth claimed him again. Afraid to move otherwise, he grasped at the broad shoulders, returning the kisses that were stealing all reason. He was achingly hard and his heart was thudding so loudly in his own ears, he thought it must be audible. James abandoned his mouth, trailing his lips along Q's throat, pausing to tongue the trip hammer of the pulse in his neck, moving on to sharply nip a tender earlobe. Q began to squirm, forgetting his position. James set him down, only to spin him around and back him to the other end of the room. 

Q felt his thighs hit the edge of his desk, heard the noises as things hit the floor, James thankfully pausing long enough to place the laptop on the floor under the desk. That was the only respite he had before Bond plucked his glasses off and leaned over to rest them on the shelf holding tech manuals and a leggy trailing plant. His mouth was immediately claimed again, an agile tongue mapping his teeth and tangling with his own. The hard muscled body pinned him in place, his erection trapped and aching. James drew back with a nipping drag at Q's lower lip, grabbing the hem of the jumper and the shirt under it, pulling at the garments to haul them over his head, tossing the muddled mess over his shoulder. He dove in for another kiss, dragging blunt fingernails up and down Q's ribs before fastening sure fingers on Q's belt. He slid it loose, ground the heel of one hand firmly against the press of Q's erection through his trousers. Q whined and bucked and James grinned, repeated the gesture, before sliding the zip down and delving inside. He gave a quick stroke or two, warm dry fingers squeezing perfectly, before grabbing trousers and pants in both hands. Q ended up flat on his back, on his own desk, utterly bare, as Bond drew his remaining clothing off, catching shoes, socks and all in a tangle and tossing it after the rest of his things. And Bond was still completely dressed! 

He had no time to lament the difference. Bond was between his thighs, the fine wool of his suit trousers rubbing delightfully against the sensitive skin. Q squirmed and reached a hand for his cock, the pressure building and demanding more contact. James grabbed his wrists and pulled them away, barking a quick laugh at Q's undoubtedly mutinous glare. “I'll take care of you. Promise.” The voice, low and smooth shivered through Q and he fisted his hands tightly as James reached into a pocket. Q watched, breath rasping harshly, as James unzipped and rubbed a hand over his own erection. Q stared, committing the sight to memory, and feeling slow shudders wrack him. James ripped open a packet and applied a condom, hilariously tinted green. Christmas condoms! He didn't have time to laugh. James folded one of Q's legs back, bending it to his chest. He squeezed out lube from a small tube, and caught Q's eyes, pressing firm fingers into his body. Q clenched down and hissed at the relative chill of the lube and the stretch of broad fingers. Whatever his face showed, it must have been something that pleased Bond. He licked his lips and smiled, a devilish, promising expression.

The fingers circled and delved deeper and Q threw his head back and howled as lightning struck up his spine. He dropped back to the desk, barely relaxing before the bastard did it again, this time withdrawing his fingers. Q writhed and twitched, cock leaking and purpling at the head as Bond gripped his gift wrapped erection and, with painstaking slowness eased into Q's body. Q was moaning and grabbing at Bond's hips, trying to get him to move, but the man had complete control of the moment and continued his steady intrusion. Fully seated, he barely had time for one slow withdrawal and thrust back when Q wailed and came, come spurting and splashing Bond's shirt front, the desk and his own face. Bond stilled and waited, breathing deep and even and hands a solid grounding presence on Q's hips. Q was still half hard and feeling the deep stretch of Bond's cock in him. A slight movement and a change in the pressure and it was all too much. Tears streamed down his face but when Bond attempted to withdraw, Q flexed his long legs around and dug his heels in the back of Bond's thighs. “Don't you bloody well stop now!” he gritted out. Obligingly, the thrusts resumed, shallow at first, than deeper and faster as Q's cock roused again. He couldn't think clearly and just knew more was all he wanted. James thrust a bit harder and Q felt his sweaty skin slide over the desk. The desk even moved and shifted as Bond lifted Q's hips and began to rake his prostate with every stroke. Q's voice rose on a drawn out wail as the stimulation reached a point of pleasure/pain and and his heels dug in sharply as he came a second time. Bond brought a hand down next to him to support his weight as his last few thrusts spelled his own release. 

As Bond withdrew smoothly, Q sprawled naked, come spattered, chest heaving, across his swept clean desk, He watched as Bond tied off the condom and deposited it in the waste basket and eyed his shirt front with a rueful smirk. “I may have miscalculated the degree of mess involved. How do you feel?” he reached a hand to grasp one of Q's, helping him sit up with a small grimace as seldom used muscles protested. 

“Fine, I think. A bit surprised.” Q felt uncertain now that he could think and had a sudden ridiculous idea that something about his wish had actually worked magic. The wonder of getting what he wanted and with this man was overwhelming. “What prompted all this,” he asked, focusing on untangling his clothes to avoid meeting Bond's eyes.

“Maybe I just decided I'd made enough covert suggestions. I could always claim it was the mistletoe.” Bond continued to tidy up, a satisfied smile on his face.

Q had his pants and trousers in place but was trying to figure out how to make himself presentable when most of his shirt buttons were missing. “There is no mistletoe in my office. That is not an answer.”

James shrugged. “Tell you what. You come home with me and we can discuss it over some excellent brandy in front of a fire.”

Q retrieved his glasses and ducked into the small washroom off his office. He smoothed his hair as best he could and adjusted the slightly large jumper to conceal the damage to the shirt. When he turned around, he saw Bond toying with an index card he quickly concealed. Realization struck. “So, Santa told you?” He found himself grinning a little at the whole thing. 

Bond held out a hand and drew him in, kissing him lightly. “Well, Santa is one of us. He's always watching.”

Q decided he might as well not make a fuss. After all, he had gotten his Christmas gift and, what did he expect when he was dealing with spies. And then he felt himself flush and buried his face in Bond's formerly crisp white shirt. He groaned. They would have to walk through his department to get to the lift. Spies were observant, true. But his staff were scarily, creepily aware of everything going on. They would take one look at the two of them exiting the office and know by some odd shared tech ESP that he had been shagged senseless on his desk. As if sensing his discomfort, James rubbed soothingly up and down his back. “Cheer up, Q. With any luck, a good portion of them are getting their end away in the store rooms. They'll be too busy to worry about you.” Unlocking the door, Bond carefully peered around the edge. Q hurriedly pulled on his coat and grabbed his bag, stuffed his poor laptop in and followed as James led the way to the lift. The staff still present were gathered around a monitor watching some arcane video. Neither noticed Eve Moneypenny, seated on a bench in the corner, raising a glass to them as the doors closed behind them.


End file.
